


Love of a Different Kind

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: Cock Warming, Corruption, Daddy Kink, Edging, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Somnophilia, Spanking, Wetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26783071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: Founders-centric prompt fills for the 2020 Kinktober event! <3Specific ratings and warnings listed at the beginning of each chapter.
Relationships: Izuna/His hand, Kakuzu/Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito, Ootsutsuki Indra/Uchiha Tajima, Senju Hashirama/Senju Tobirama, Senju Hashirama/Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Izuna, Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara, Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Izuna/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 47
Kudos: 177





	1. MadaTobi, Mutual Masturbation, Rated E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kinktober prompt list here!](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/630827092994654208/lustyargonianmaid-time-to-start-planning) Feel free to request a ship and day/theme via anon ask on Tumblr, or comment below. Please include at least one Founders’ era character in the pairing. Anything goes! ;D 
> 
> Kinktober Day 1: Pegging / **Mutual Masturbation**  
>  Pairing: Madara x Tobirama  
> Rating: E

A shinobi’s hands are powerful tools in any context. 

Be it the wielding of a kunai or a brutal strike delivered with such bludgeoning force as to invite the shinigami, Tobirama has watched Madara offer a taste of it all. However, the feel of those calluses wrapped around a weapon of a different sort is something he could never have foreseen. He swallows hard and drops his head back against the cresting pleasure.

“Don’t you dare,” Madara rumbles so close his voice raises gooseflesh. The sweet burn of his palm slides to a standstill. “If I’m not finishing yet, neither are you.”

Avaricious bastard, Tobirama thinks wryly. It’s why they slot together in each other’s lives so well—neither one of them knows when to pull their hand away from the fire.

“Then get on with it. Or can’t you do two things at once,” he quips back over his shoulder, smile evident for all that his words are sharp. He shifts pointedly on Madara’s lap and traps that swollen erection more thoroughly between his thighs. Precome slicks the way against bare skin where Tobirama’s pants have been divested only just enough to free his own cock and give Madara space to work him.

“Sage forbid I actually get to enjoy my lunch break without your mouth running. Should have just shoved my cock down your throat and been done with it,” Madara snaps, teeth clicking on the roundabout denial even as he begins to lazily roll his hips.

“Tomorrow,” Tobirama promises in return. Or tonight. The idea holds merit, so certainly soon. 

The firm slide of Madara’s shaft against his scrotum returns his thoughts to the present, a near maddening tease coupled with the equally slow stroke of his hand. Madara’s rich, purple cockhead finally reveals itself and Tobirama can’t resist but to drag his fingers against the glistening tip.

His daring earns a moan and a powerful, jolting thrust that lifts them both. The smack of skin—wet with sweat and the heralds of release—resounds through the office Madara and Hashirama share. The wooden chair creaks in sympathy beneath them. Noises of their mutual pleasure are loud in the hush of shared breath and a single smothered grunt.

Madara may enjoy the dance, but it’s this music they make between them that Tobirama lives for.

“Though, perhaps,” he begins, pausing to gasp on a particularly skilled twist of Madara’s wrist, “perhaps I would be content to be quiet sooner if Uchiha weren’t so slow to satisfy.”

“Oh, I’ll give you slow, Senju.”

And there it is, the reflexive anger that comes with any and every challenge. There’s no denying the threat, nor the conflagration it ignites in them both.

Tobirama brings his superior dexterity to bear, but in the end, Madara’s extensive experience with a gunbai wins out.


	2. HashiTobi, Daddy Kink, rated T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kinktober prompt list here!](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/630827092994654208/lustyargonianmaid-time-to-start-planning) Feel free to request a ship and day/theme via anon ask on Tumblr, or comment below. Please include at least one Founders’ era character in the pairing. Anything goes! ;D 
> 
> Kinktober Day 1: Pegging / Mutual Masturbation  
> Pairing: Madara x Tobirama  
> Rating: EKinktober Day 2: **daddy kink** / dirty talk  
> Pairing: Hashirama x Tobirama  
> Rating: T

Hashirama takes heart in the tenderness of another’s fingers as they card through his hair. It’s not always like this, but the days are growing longer and the hat is beginning to weigh on him. Madara has offered to step in as acting Hokage in the interim—and it’s not a bad idea—Hashirama just wants so desperately not to disappoint. 

The village, his precious people, his beloved otouto—they’re all counting on him to be a guiding light in this strange new world when sometimes he doesn’t even know who he is anymore. Those moments where the expectation gets to be too much are growing more frequent. 

He’s starting to flag.

Hashirama sighs against his brother’s lap and rolls just enough to shove his face into Tobirama’s obi. He snuffles in contentment as the familiar smell of love and home wash away the acidic tang of ink that lingers on his fingertips. 

Tomorrow will be another day, for now he doesn’t have to be the vaunted God of Shinobi, nor even the glorified paper-pusher he’s become. Tobirama’s stomach is firm where his nose squashes into it and those hands are a gift from the Sage along his scalp. Here, he can relax and simply be. 

“Tell me what you need,” Tobirama says, keeping his tone as gentle as his fingertips. The rumble of his voice rolls through Hashirama’s cheek to settle deep in his bones.

What does he need? There’s no knowing what he truly needs, but what he wants is to defer to an authority not his own for once. He wants to feel the warmth of unconditional love—arms around him and sweet kisses on his nose.

“Can we do the thing?” he asks, ducking his face completely into the folds of Tobirama’s kosode to hide the heat blooming in his cheeks. As often as he does it, requesting this particular luxury still hasn’t gotten any easier. He waits with bated breath until suddenly, there it is—the considering hum, the subtle spike of chakra against his lips. Relief sweeps through him knowing that this is something they both can enjoy. Together.

“You know that invitation is always open, Anija. Comfort or intimacy?”

What a sweet otouto to ask each and every time. Hashirama has never loved anyone more.

“Cuddling would be really nice.”

“It would.” Tobirama quickly stows his ink and pushes the chabudai an arm’s reach away. He rewards Hashirama’s forwardness by urging him up from his prone sprawl across the tatami mats and pulling him close.

It takes a moment of repositioning to get things just right, but in the end, Hashirama smiles as the weight of Tobirama’s jaw comes to rest on top of his head, arms wrapped around his waist as they recline together amongst the pillows. There’s no safer place in all of Konoha, he thinks, closing his eyes against the burn.  
  
“Thank you, Daddy,” he whispers, voice filled with emotion so thick he could drown in it.

“You’re welcome, Princess,” Tobirama replies without hesitation. 


	3. MadaTobi, mind-control, Rated E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 3: mind control (surprisingly not noncon lol)  
> Pairing: Madara x Tobirama  
> Rating: E

As with most of the wicked Senju’s inventions, these control tags are an aberration, a foul caricature of powers best left for those born to them. There’s at least a sense of honor and honesty in a Sharingan’s subversion. This amalgamation of seal-work is simply...perverse.

Madara toys with the string of the tag as it tugs against the base of Tobirama’s skull. His kunai is completely buried in resurrected flesh, invisible except for a sharp point of exposed metal where it ran out of throat to contain it.

No blood drips. No wheezing breath slows him. Senju Tobirama is his perfect soldier—orderly, dedicated, and efficient. Black-cracked skin certainly hasn’t blunted his ability to take Madara apart.

Not that Madara would care to admit such a thing. 

“Put your back into it before I fall asleep,” he announces to the rafters instead.

Ever the dutiful partner, Tobirama acquiesces, spreading his knees and digging in with his toes to thrust harder, deeper. He’ll do anything for Madara in this state. All it takes is a command, a thought. And the next one has Tobirama’s hands scrabbling at his hips, desperate to find a handhold that won’t betray him.

It’s amazing how quiet he is. There’s no vitriol to mask how their sounds of shared pleasure fill the halls of the Uchiha main line’s home. Like this—spread out and speared through for anyone living to walk past and see—Madara thinks he could grow to love him. 

He lets loose a derisive snort.

That’s a dream that never died, unfortunately.

Lax and willing, he turns his thoughts towards allowing his erstwhile enemy to bully in close enough to position them the way he wants, but doesn’t bother saying aloud. The pelt Tobirama always wears looks stupid with the rest of his sweat-slick body bared to the light streaming in from the open shoji doors. It’s so achingly him, though, so Madara lets it stay.

He’s grown soft in his old age, he supposes. 

“I’m still waiting for this dance you promised me, Senju,” he drawls even as his calves are hoisted onto broad shoulders. The stretch of his hamstrings is a divine burn, echoed in his most intimate place where the flare of Tobirama’s glans stubbornly keeps them connected in the shuffle.

Silence is his reward, followed by the slow, inexorable push of more than enough cock to satisfy.

As soon as Madara can feel his buttocks flatten against firm thighs, Tobirama attacks in earnest. He pushes in with the full force of his body weight—fighting for even a millimeter more—and pistons, slowly at first, then with abandon. 

Madara drops his head back and arches into each thrust as he’s conquered and split wide. The ceiling rocks in his darkening vision. Meaty slaps fill the void of words like a fist fight.

The world around them shudders.

They grunt and gasp in tandem with each desperate plunge until there’s no telling what is pleasure and what is pain. Shared breath lands hotter than a star’s heart. The angle is one part agony, two parts deliverance, and wholly perfect.

As Tobirama continues to rut his way towards destroying them both, the kunai tip visible under the prominence of his larynx begins to disappear. Madara knows what’s coming, but he doesn’t stop it. He never does. Instead, he reaches up to fist his hands in Tobirama’s hair and pull him down into a sloppy, searing kiss.

The clatter of steel on wood rings out like a call to arms—not that Tobirama slows in his single-minded mission to pleasure him. Their coupling is frenetic, falling out of rhythm, but too close to orgasm for it to matter.

Toes curling of their own volition, Madara rips his legs down from Tobirama’s shoulders to bracket his hips like a vice. The burn of friction mounts higher, sets his stomach to clenching. Finally, when he thinks he might well and truly die for once, release slams through him, cock untouched.

He screams and pulls Tobirama’s face down against his throat to share in the sound. Come pulses in him, between them, hot and thick. Amazing how he can have ears that don’t hear and eyes that don’t see in that one brief explosion of pleasure. Panting, they collapse together. For a time, Madara is content to float. But, the respite doesn’t last.

“Un,” he groans once his faculties have returned just enough to make the hardwood floor uncomfortable. Apparently, it’s an invite for discussion.

“Why do you always insist on using the control seal when we fuck?” Tobirama snarls against his collarbone, making certain his tone doesn’t invite an answer. 

Madara gives him one anyways, grinning, warm and lazy. “Because it shuts you up and makes me come faster.” He can feel the warmth of ruddy cheeks and there’s no way to hide how his swollen lips hang slack enough to round out his words. Still, Tobirama would be disappointed if there wasn’t at least some fight left in him. A hint of challenge.

Tobirama pushes up, still close enough to smell the cool, clean scent of grave dirt on his breath. 

“Oh? I suppose if my agency is so anathema perhaps you’d be happier with your hand from now on,” he ripostes.

“Probably.”

Scoffing, Tobirama lowers himself and buries his annoyance in a kiss. “Stupid, vexatious man,” he hisses, even as his palms cradle Madara’s cheeks like something fragile.

Sage, Madara could live a hundred lifetimes and never regret a single step because they all led here, to this—a waking dream where pale hands coax him to life swifter than Rinne Tensei. Mornings have been lost in irises as red as the Sharingan for as long as he cares to remember.

It’s everything he could have possibly wanted.

Contrary to the opinions of lesser minds, the world has flourished under his infinite Tsukuyomi. Nature reclaimed the spaces perverted by human greed and the people themselves lived out the remainder of their years in whichever version of paradise most suited them. It’s perfect— 

“I suppose I’ll have to instruct you in the error of your thinking.”

—wholly and completely perfect. 

He gasps as Tobirama’s supernatural endurance swells into his interned cock and the dance begins anew.

“Yes, give me more. Make me _feel_ it this time,” he chokes out. 

How fortunate that his own dream never required a genjutsu; it was only ever housed in a heart of ice and a will of fire. 


	4. HashiMada, Somnophilia, Rated E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 4: Somnophilia  
> Pairing: Hashirama x Madara  
> Rating: E
> 
>  **Warning(s):** Non-violent rape

Winter months have always made Hashirama fall comatose just after sunset and sleep well into the morning—they all know it. He’s a force of nature and susceptible to its whims, Madara has found.

Shaking his head, he enters the dark bedroom without a sound and deposits the sheaf of papers he needed signed onto Hashirama’s desk. An ink brush rolls away and threatens to teeter over the edge, but Madara catches it easily, sets it back in its place with the same silent alacrity as his footfalls. It wouldn’t be wise to deprive the man of rest he so rarely gets, that’s why he’s keeping so circumspect.

And if he repeats the sentiment often enough it will have to be true, won’t it? He just wants to afford Hashirama a little time to relax. Their village’s co-founder deserves that much, they both do.

Madara licks his lips, hesitating. It’s only with a herculean effort that he manages to pull himself away from the desk and cross the room without stealing a glance towards the source of gentle snores. If he leaves quickly, whatever territorial beast is rising in his chest will settle.

Inhaling long and slow, he braces his hands against the doorframe and tells himself to go, but his pulse kicks up even as he swallows against the burn. Fuck. The urge is too great, his yearning too potent.

He dares to look over his shoulder for one tiny peek—only enough to sate his hunger. Just a harmless taste.

In an instant, he knows he won’t be returning to the tower.

Hashirama lies sprawled out on his stomach, copper skin bare and set aglow by moonlight. With a sheet twisted around one ankle and his pillow flung against the far wall, there’s nothing left to keep hungry eyes from devouring the slope of a shapely ass. Sage, the definition of his thighs is visible and stark with contoured shadow even in sleep. And there, flaccid between his splayed legs is a cock that lies long and thick even when it’s soft.

Shit.

He had come here with the intention of obtaining a signature—an innocent, honest signature. But to have such an offering laid out for him when their brothers are still preoccupied in the tower... It would be a shame if Hashirama grew cold in the evening air.

The shoji screen slides shut on well-oiled casters and doesn’t make so much as a swish of displaced air when it shuts under Madara’s hand.

Hashirama—his best friend—has always been vivacious in displays of affection and gracious with his gifts. This is obviously a set-up for Madara. It’s a ‘thank you’ for the years of friendship and an apology for the decades of war.

Madara begins to breathe faster, knowing it would be rude to deny a gift freely given.

The next few minutes come in a series of still images—the straps of his hakama pooled between long legs, honing oil glistening on his callused fingers, and the arch of a proud neck even as Hashirama lies unconscious under the stretch.

Madara thinks he could live in this moment forever with the chill sweeping gooseflesh up his bare buttocks. He rolls a bronzed scrotum in his palm until it tightens. If he shifts them just a little he can simultaneously memorize how Hashirama’s purpling cockhead grows past the ring of foreskin to bow against the floor.

Arousal slams through him at the sight of so much girth. The only thing he regrets is not being able to activate his sharingan. Any other emotion is bullied back under the oppressive weight of his desire.

His heart pounds. Static deafens him. 

Again, time skips.

Suddenly, his hands are no longer massaging and stroking his friend to hardness; instead they’re clenching around a broad waist.

A forge’s worth of molten heat hugs his cock like a vice. How he made it this far without sobbing at such a show of generosity, he doesn’t know. Everything is so bright behind his eyelids. He pumps his hips once and the world narrows to a single thought.

Hashirama.

It’s like he’s watching from the point of view of a stranger with how the scene changes. There’s a tenderness to the way he blankets himself along Hashirama’s back. It’s so cold. The plants outside are curled down under their sheets and Hashirama…he deserves that same care. How lucky that Madara is here to tend to him. His motivation continues to vacillate between passion and compassion, but the outcome is the same.

He takes in a lungful of the lavender scent that always clings to his friend’s hair.

Hashirama _needs_ him, and so Madara continues to rut into him long and slow. Slick, hot, inviting.

No one has ever loved Hashirama like he can—like he does. Minutes pass, feeling like hours and finishing has never been so easy.

The culmination of their time together takes him by surprise.

Orgasm creeps up on him, not as an explosive force, but as a levee that erodes in stages. A first dribble of come surprises him into gasping, then another, fuller spurt has him collapsing to his hands on either side of Hashirama’s chest. He tries to keep his rutting slow and controlled.

Such gentle torture only prolongs the agony.

Gritting his teeth, Madara shudders as if he’s about to fall apart, Hashirama’s hole fluttering around him reflexively. Another surge of come and he’s left breathless and gasping as he begins to tear at the seams. Finally, the wicked wall of pleasure crests and brings him down the other side of release. It’s all he can do to stay quiet and upright.

Has there ever been a more divine death—a more beautiful shingami?

Sage, his friend is so handsome in the moonlight. Slack lips spill wordless commentary in his sleep and every whisper sounds like ‘I love you’. ‘I need you’. They were meant for each other, Madara _knows_ it. 

He allows himself a moment to revel in the lassitude of wanting and being wanted in turn. For all that he has a shinobi’s endurance, his arms quiver and threaten to give out. Come drips steadily from Hashirama’s well-stretched hole as Madara descends back from the pure lands and slips his softened cock free. This seed is a testament to the wealth of love they share.

If only that love could be had in the daytime. Madara would give anything to feel like this while Hashirama looks up from under him with tenderness and a sun-bright smile. Whatever. Even if that day never comes, at least he’ll have these winter secrets to sustain him.

He likes to pretend the warmth in his chest isn’t tainted by shame. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, not daring to look up at high cheekbones and chestnut hair. He presses his fingers in deep and scoops out as much spend as he can reach. What small rivulets escaped down Hashirama’s tight scrotum are easily licked away. 

Unfortunate that Hashirama wasn’t able to share Madara’s climax, but the stakes are too high and the game too dangerous to linger any longer than necessary. Madara tucks himself back into his fundoshi and gathers the discarded pillow from it’s sad slump across the room. As soon as Hashirama is tucked in and snoring soundly once more, Madara makes sure to kiss the top of his head before leaving.

Again he wonders how it would feel to have that kiss captured by Hashirama’s lips and blinks away the burn. He’s an _absolute fool_. Lost in thought, he doesn’t realize that the darkness of the door is deeper than it should be. A breeze wafts in through the open window behind him and continues into the hall beyond where red eyes pierce him through.

A white face appears like a specter in the gloom.

Tobirama.

“He wasn’t awake so I put the approval forms on his desk,” Madara states, happy to note his voice stays low and even. “He can finish them in the morning.”

He allows the gloom to hide the filth on his hand, obfuscating his crime. Regardless, Tobirama’s unwavering gaze never leaves his face.

“You left the tower thirty minutes ago,” Tobirama points out, tone equally flat.

“I went for a walk. What the fuck do you care how I spend my time, Senju?”

Madara shoulders his way past, heart leaping into his throat when Tobirama snatches his wrist and brings him up short. Instinct tells him to punch his way to freedom, but caution wins out.

“How you spend your—” Tobirama pauses for an incriminating heartbeat, choosing his words carefully “— _time_ is none of my concern. You missed a spot is all.” His face splits on an adder’s grin as he reaches up to brush the corner of Madara’s lips with his thumb. Gentle. Soft. And when it slips away, glistening with come in the ambient moonlight two seconds before disappearing against a pink tongue, Madara knows he’s been caught.

“You should be more careful next time,” Tobirama says, turning away and sliding the shoji screen firmly shut behind him. 


	5. HashiMadaTobi, Corruption, Rated M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober day 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 5: corruption (a request from the CYOA server)  
> Pairing: Hashirama x Madara x Tobirama  
> Rating: M

It’s not surprising to feel the telltale burn of Madara’s rage approach their house, pause on the engawa, then slink back to hover in the doorway like a widow’s lament. He’s angry—no, furious—at his own inability to resist the delicacies he’s sampled only twice before. 

Tobirama smirks even as he continues to scan through some ancient treatise or another, seeing, but not reading. Victory is so close. 

This irascible man is an acquired taste, but one both he and his brother have agreed is worth serving at their table. They don’t come to a consensus easily or often. Funny how Madara has come to be one of those few points of compromise. 

“I’m not going to beg,” Madara announces, slamming the shoji screen open so that he’s backlit by the late afternoon sun. His spine is straight, his bearing as haughty as any head of clan meant for greater things than succumbing to his own foibles.

“Good. You’d lose our respect if you did,” Tobirama scoffs as he unravels the scroll another few centimeters and still refuses to look up. Head on his lap, Hashirama nuzzles his thigh where the yukata has parted to reveal a peek of the creamy skin that still bears the black and blue imprints of Madara’s teeth.

The arch of a sun-kissed neck, the reminder of passions past, and the promise of things to come—Tobirama can tell how desperate the image of them together is making Madara. So desperate he breaks with a snarl. 

“I don’t have time for this,” he intones through grit teeth as if he’s not here his own volition. “I’m supposed to be in marriage talks right now for a woman from the capitol, some politician’s daughter or another. A contract would cement ties between Konoha and the daimyo for generations.”

As if Hashirama and Tobirama aren’t fully aware. This conversation is only for appearances; Madara is speaking aloud to his own conscience in an attempt to justify himself before an audience. He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t already decided on a course of action. They all know it. Still, Tobirama is content to let the Uchiha stand there and sweat through his ill-suited finery.

It’s punishment for even thinking to put the layers of red and gold silk on in the first place.

“We’re well aware of the political climate, thank you,” he quips. “The sun is setting and we have plans for the evening. Unless you have something noteworthy to say, shouldn’t you be on your way, Uchiha?”

Madara stiffens visibly.

And yes, that was perhaps a bit too far of a push.

Sighing, Hashirama eases up from his comfortable sprawl and shoots their possible third a look that’s one part apology and two parts devastation. “Tobi doesn’t mean that. You know you’re always welcome here,” he says, voice as gentle and sun-bright as his smile. “The offer is still on the table and it’ll be there no matter what you choose.” He graces Tobirama’s cheek with a soft, chiding kiss, then sinks back down to reclaim his pillow.

Clever Anija.

The offer—a proposition brought up in the heat of passion and repeated in a hundred clandestine touches under tables and behind walls. Hashirama had told Madara to stay forever that first night, and Tobirama couched his own eagerness for the idea in a screaming orgasm. 

None of them were on time to the tower the following morning.

To have Madara like that permanently—pliant and firm against his chest in the afterglow—is all Tobirama needs. All they need. It stings that Madara would even have to consider, but he’s been slowly coming around to the idea. That vaunted love of clan has been growing quieter in these moments between them.

“I won’t beg,” Madara repeats, closing his eyes and slowly allowing his arms to fall loose by his sides, “and I won’t ask to stay, but I would like to. Stay, that is.”

Verdant vines curl up from between the floorboards in Hashirama’s sudden, overwhelming joy. The victory is sweeter for all that it was hard-won and Tobirama is well aware of his anija’s predilection for wearing away at a flagstone with his roots until it bows. 

Laughing with obvious tears in his eyes, Hashirama rolls onto his back and opens his arms wide in invitation. “You don’t ever have to ask, my friend.”

It’s a sentiment Tobirama shares. He finally deigns to toss his unread scroll aside and acknowledge Madara’s surrender with direct eye-contact and an honest smile all his own.

“Well, if you’re not going to negotiate a marriage contract today, you’re more than a little overdressed, now aren’t you?”


	6. IndraTaji, Edging, Rated E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober day 6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 6: edging  
> Pairing: Indra x Tajima  
> Rating: E 
> 
> A/n: Featuring trans!Tajima

Tajima claws at the chabudai and digs furrows into the lacquered top. Delicately inlaid vines fog with the humidity of his breath. He tries to focus on each little golden furl and the almost three-dimensional unfolding of leaves. The artist was his eldest son, a master with his hands and—by the Sage he can’t do it. It’s impossible to concentrate on anything other than being taken apart for all that he knows it will be his downfall to give in.

He screws his eyes shut and desperately tries to recreate the image behind his eyelids. Cherry wood stained an even deeper red, golden ink chasing the curves of the table’s edge, the long, thick warmth splitting him wide.

Fuck.

“Having a problem, are we?” a voice croons behind him, punctuating the jibe with a devastating roll of hips.

Tajima barely manages to strangle back a grunt. It hurts, but adverting disaster is worth the pain of biting his lip bloody.

“Perfectly fine,” he replies, sweet as pie. Aloof. Unconcerned. 

The stubborn playacting makes Indra laugh. “Oh, Tajima. This is why you’re my favorite,” he says with nothing but fondness. “Your spirit is indomitable...”

There’s a pause that crackles with kinetic energy. Tajima knows what’s coming and can only lament as the shinigami approaches. Oddly cool, sweat-slick skin presses him down more firmly against the table as Indra allows him to take their weight in order to free up his hands. Fingers trace the curve of his hip down under his lower stomach and further still to slip in the slickness of too many orgasms denied.

“…and your cunt divine.”

Tajima gasps, ruts against the added pressure until he’s sure he’s going to have more than a generous cock to contend with in this game of orgasm denial. His foe is too clever for such an obvious attack, though. Indra strokes through his folds—so ashamedly wet—long enough for Tajima to grow used to the added pleasure, then further, to map the topography of where his clit swells in anticipation of a truly spectacular finish.

Red cherry wood. Golden ink. It’s impossible. A surge of pleasure begins to sweep up from his toes and he knows he’s about to lose. 

“Should have—ah—killed you when I—ah—had the chance,” he tosses over his shoulder.

Again, Indra laughs, and the sound resonates in the sensation of his twitching cock as it feeds into him at a glacial pace. “And when have you ever been good enough to find that chance? No, you’re my sweet little Uchiha Tajima. I doubt you could even drive the kunai home if I put it in your hand.”

“Get my pack and lets find out,” Tajima taunts, knowing the burn of a lie even through the rising pleasure.

Ōtsutsuki‎ Indra has been an ever-present force in his life since he was young enough to be playing at war games with sticks and stones. That chilly touch has guided Tajima’s sword arm to victory on more than one occasion and his seed has gifted him three sons already. There’s not much Tajima wouldn’t do for him—no act of submission can ever be counted in the same domain as shame when it’s given for this one man. 

Not that Tajima will ever admit to it. Especially not when he’s being fucked by an _unrepentant bastard_.

“Ah, you get so vicious when you’re about to come,” Indra observes. He twists his pelvis and Tajima drops his forehead to the table with a heavy thunk at the expertly calculated angle.

Orgasm is steadily rising. The wave is so close to cresting. Yet, just as the white caps are in sight, they’re snatched from his grasp for what seems like the hundredth time tonight. Tajima screams his rage into his fist at being denied yet again. Over and over Indra has worked him up with all the patience of a creature who’s lived more than his fair share of lifetimes and Tajima wants to _throttle him_.

“What will it take?” Tajima asks incredulously. The table wavers in his vision—black, gold, and red, red, red.

“To do what? Kill me?” Indra asks, voice rolling as low and all-consuming as his hips along Tajima’s buttocks.

“No, damn you.” Breaking on a moan, Tajima arches his back and tries to chase the tease of a wide cockhead as it slides between his lips and retreats without breaching him. “To let me come before I die of old age.”

Melodious and divine, Indra’s good humor rains down with the same easy beneficence as his kisses.

“You know what I want, Sweetling,” he replies, a kitsune’s cleverness in a man’s body.

“Fine! Yes,” Tajima snaps. He can’t see further than his own white knuckles, can’t account for the ramifications of his pleasure with temptation so achingly close. “Just fuck me already.”

Hot breath and sharp teeth in the shape of a smile are Tajima’s only warning.

A week shy of nine months later, Uchiha Madara opens his eyes to the world.


	7. HashiIzu, Wetting, Rated M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 8. (Day 7 will be added tomorrow)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 8: Wetting/Watersports  
> Pairing: Hashirama x Izuna  
> Rating: M

This is nice, Izuna thinks. 

His nii-san’s desk is wide, spacious, and just the right height to prop his sandals on the edge and kick his chair back onto two legs. It’s the very epitome of luxury being able to lord over the Hokage’s office, aromatic tea in one hand, a totalitarian fist in the other. Today really can’t get any better. 

“I’m allowed to use force if you don’t pick that brush back up, Hokage-sama,” he sing-songs over the rim of his cup. And he is. Upon leaving for their overnight mission--which Izuna suspects is a thinly veiled excuse to go fuck in the woods--Madara and Tobirama had given him orders.

‘Anija is not to leave your sight until that treatise is drafted and signed in blood. Tie him to the damned chair if you have to.’

Tobirama has such a way with words. An undiscovered poet, that one.

“But I have to go!” Hashirama whines as he collapses to the tabletop, all boneless, child-like dramatics in a god’s body. Chestnut hair spills like silk over the edges in a flood of foreshadowing Izuna can feel soul deep.

He blows the steam off of the top of his cup and takes a delicate sip, eyebrow steadily rising. “Then you should hurry up and finish, shouldn’t you?” It’s been hours. They’ve shared a lot of tea.

Hashirama wriggles in place and the smooth roil of anticipation begins to curl tighter in Izuna’s gut, creeping lower to settle where he wisely opted for his loosest hakama today. Never let it be said that the head of ANBU is not gifted in planning and foresight.

He grins as he takes a deeper, longer sip, sure to make it sound as loud and wet as possible.

And there it is—the horror, the desperation. Hashirama slowly raises his head, sunshine smile setting into a tight line. It’s always been a curiosity how quickly his moods can change. “I’ll finish when I get back,” he says with no allowance for argument in his tone. He pushes up from his desk and Izuna can see how difficult it is for him to stand up straight without balking or curling over. 

Temperance is an honorable trait in a leader, but one that fails to whet Izuna’s already voracious appetite. He licks an errant drop of tea from his lips and allows his chair to drop back onto all four legs. The abrupt clatter has Hashirama scowling and—there it is—hunching over the slightest bit. 

“You’ll finish now, Hokage-sama,” Izuna corrects gleefully. 

“It can wait. I’m going to the bathroom.”

And if his burgeoning erection wasn’t preemptively tucked behind his obi, Izuna would swell noticeably under so much chakric threat, billowing hakama or no. Hashirama is beautiful in his desperation.

“Your brother left very specific instructions,” he tries to say without sounding too breathless. “We both know what will happen if we don’t follow them to the letter, hmm?”

Nothing noteworthy, but it still gives Hashirama pause enough for Izuna to rock up to his feet and cross the room with maybe a bit more sway in his hips than wise for a shinobi. Each step adds a delightful burn where his obi sits just under his cockhead. Every slap of his sandals is the resonant tolling of a bell—a portent of deaths both big and small. Several of those little ones if he’s lucky.

“So I suggest you go,” he dares to stroke the folds of linen where they stretch over a firm chest, “sit,” down further to toy with Hashirama’s obi, “back,” then a shove, soft, but enough to incite panic, “down.” There are a thousand lifetimes of terror held in Hashirama’s slack-jawed expression. How interesting that a shinobi comparatively outclassed in terms of power and skill can tame a tiger through simple suggestion—the most benign of threats.

This close, Izuna can see how Hashirama’s eyes shift from black to hazel as the mokuton swirls in his veins, uncertain. This close he can watch the way they widen as he slides a light touch to the small of Hashirama’s back and presses on his lower abdomen. After a beat of hesitation, an open offer to pull back, he slides his palm down to gently cup between Hashirama’s legs. Even soft, the shape of Hashirama’s cock is big in his hand. Everything about the stupid Senju is gratuitous—larger than life.

“Izuna,” Hashirama stutters, and that’s not even close to affront thickening his voice.

The easy capitulation in the shape of his name is almost enough to make Izuna come untouched. He swallows heavily, rallies his wits to push them both just a step closer to the edge.

“Be good for me now, Hokage-sama,” he murmurs, dropping his voice and fluttering his eyelashes. “Or I’ll have to use force.” He strokes up the growing swell of Hashirama’s hakama front and applies steady pressure through the heel of his hand.

The blow is devastating.

Suddenly, warmth floods his palm. The stream starts out subtle, then grows strong under his coaxing hand.

Hashirama clutches his shoulders like a lifeline and drops his forehead to rest on the top of Izuna’s hair. Moaning long and low, he shakes with the abrupt release of pressure in his bladder.

He must have be so uncomfortable. How fortunate that Izuna is here to see to his needs.

Half-panting, Izuna continues to knead the wet material and the turgid flesh beneath. A pool of urine ripples around his sandals and the tops of his feet are wet with it. The pale yellow stain on Hashirama’s robes of office stands out stark against the white fabric.

Izuna drags his teeth across his bottom lip and gives in to the burn of his sharingan.

“Oh my. Look at the mess you’ve made Hokage-sama.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watersports and I have an odd relationship. I never read tags, so whenever I come across fic with this particular kink it takes me by surprise half-way through and I can't help but crack up and yell "surprise watersports!" every time. It's not anything I'm into, but I have nothing but fond memories of coming across it in written works. XD If this is your kink, I sincerely hope I was able to do it justice.


	8. HashiKakuMito, Spanking, Rated E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 7: Spanking  
> Pairing: Hashirama x Kakuzu x Mito  
> Rating: E

It’s a strangely charmed life Kakuzu has been thrust into. Never once had he imagined that all of his training, all of the unnatural experimentation forced upon his body would lead to...whatever this is.

“Harder if you please,” Mito orders. 

Her chin is light on his shoulder, her breath soft. Kakuzu has come to find that’s not the only softness housed beneath her veil of stoicism—a privilege he still doesn’t understand, but far be it for him to refuse riches freely offered.

“And what did he do this time?” he asks, voice a lazy drawl even as his threads strike with unerring precision. Hashirama—lying across his lap on the tatami mats with hakama and fundoshi gathered around his ankles—screams sweeter than a bounty. Even his copper complexion can’t hide the welts growing hot and angry across his buttocks. 

Pretty bastard.

“Nothing at all. Consider this preemptive,” Mito answers without inflection. She kisses his neck and only there can Kakuzu feel the hidden smile on her lips. 

Glorious bitch. 

This playacting is all for her husband, their husband, which again, is strange beyond telling. The fabled God of Shinobi is a wolf cowled in the guise of a sheep and not afraid to take what he wants. Kakuzu learned that fact firsthand after his failed assassination attempt, then by being on the opposite end of a successful rescue mission from Takigakure. Kidnapping, technically. He can’t fathom why people are comfortable having a leader so dangerously convinced of his own righteousness, but he doesn’t care enough to ask.

Konoha is wealthy and their Hokage can fuck for days. That’s good enough for Kakuzu. Second chances are worth their weight in gold, he’s found.

He looks down at the arch of a proud spine, sweat-slick and bowed under the sting of his threads. Chestnut hair clings to Hashirama’s shoulders and back in tendrils very much like his own. It’s an aesthetically pleasing image, but not one of Kakuzu’s favorites. That will come later when he splits this mythological man wide up against the wall and fucks him with five hearts’ worth of stamina.

Mito likes to watch when he does that. Sometimes she’ll get a step stool and test those hearts’ resolve by pegging him with a mokuton strap-on at the same time. It’s cute. Satisfying.

Kakuzu can feel his face split into a nightmare grin at the thought. Not a bad life he has here. 

“You want him bloody?” he grunts, eager to get to better things.

“This is a lesson, not a punishment,” Mito sighs like a dream. “Be firm, but kind to our dear husband. He works so hard for us. I would hate to see him suffer unnecessarily.”

That wasn’t a ‘no’. Which means it was as good as a ‘yes’.

Snorting, Kakuzu swings his segmented arm up high enough that his knuckles scrape the ceiling, then brings his palm back down so hard the air whistles. Again. And again. _And again._ He loses count to be honest, lost in the screams and the steadily widening pool of come Hashirama spills down his thighs.

The wet, meaty slaps make Kakuzu’s cock twitch after a while and he thinks maybe—just maybe—he can understand why these two are always so turned on by spanking.

Hashirama howls until he’s hoarse—that tenor no less beautiful for devolving until it’s barely a rasp. And while there’s no blood, the perfect, red imprint of Kakuzu’s hand is going to be there for hours, ridiculous healing factor or no.

“Oh, that was nice,” Mito purrs, rewarding him with the warmth of her bare breasts pressed against his back. Judging by the sharp intake of breath, Kakuzu figures his fire and wind masks aren’t staying idle. 

“Now—” Mito continues, voice only slightly breathy, “—now that our husband is suitably chastised, perhaps we should take him to bed to sooth the burn.” 

Funny how quickly her intent loses subtlety so close to getting what she wants. In this way, she’s very much like the man spread out and drooling across his lap.

Kakuzu can feel one of her delicate hands explore his sternum even as the other leaves his chest to pluck at a stitch tucked just under the swell of his Adonis’ belt. She strokes along his incision lines and digs her hooks under his skin when he reflexively lets her in.

There’s no mistaking the unspoken command, just as there’s no hiding how she widens her knees to let Kakuzu feel her most intimate warmth against his buttocks. Wet and swollen lips parting against him paint a story his water mask eagerly laps up.

And here on his lap, Hashirama stirs again, muscle bunching as he pushes up just enough to glance over his shoulder.

“Yes, please,” he moans, tears of satisfaction painting salt trails along the same lines as his Sage mode.

Again, the spanking thing isn’t his preference, but for this, for them, Kakuzu can make allowances. 

  
  
  


  
  



	9. Izuna, Exhibitionism, Rated E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 9: Exhibitionism   
> Pairing: Izuna/absolutely no shame  
> Rating: E
> 
> We're back in business!

It’s next to impossible to keep quiet under the ministrations of a skilled hand.

Fingers that know Izuna’s each and every weakness coax his foreskin down to reveal a shiny, purpling cockhead. The morning air laps at his tip, making him shudder at the abrupt change in temperature. He won’t be able to last long. Not like this—with his pants bunched up just beneath his buttocks and Hashirama’s hair occasionally sweeping against his bare hip.

Izuna tilts his chin down, eyelashes fluttering and lips pursed into a sweet O.

He’s so hard it hurts. Precome beads up on each rising stroke, spilling over as his palm descends. He sweeps his thumb through the rivulet, spreads it beneath the generous flare of his glans. Just a little bit more. Another round of heavy strokes altering the pressure just enough to ride the knife’s edge of pleasure and pain.

Sage, there’s no sweeter vice than his own hand.

“Will you be getting to the point sometime this era?” Madara’s voice rumbles from a couple of seats down the bench. He makes for an imposing figure in profile, elbows braced on the table before him and fingers steepled in the seal katon users know best. “Yours isn’t the only clan here today and talking in circles isn’t going to change the Hokage’s answer.”

His rolling baritone quakes the mokuton benches in the meeting hall and Izuna shamelessly uses it to his advantage. He spreads his legs as far as he can with his fundoshi riding low and tilts his hips to feel the vibration against his scrotum. Now if only Tobirama would start yelling in that ridiculously deep roar of his. Then Izuna would really be getting somewhere.

He bites his bottom lip as he adds a delicious twist to his wrist that sets off a bloom of heat in his loins. Orgasm is just on the other side of a paper screen. Groaning softly, he works himself faster and chases that small death, rattling the table in his enthusiasm.

“Uchiha Madara-sama, while I understand your reticence, I don’t think—” The Hyūga clan head pauses. “What is your brother doing?” he asks, perplexed.

Izuna sucks in a long, whistling breath. This is the best part—the reveal, the wonder, _the audience_. His toes curl in anticipation. His pulse pounds out a frantic tempo in his ears. This is it.

“You’ve been standing here stroking your own dick for so long that—ah—mine got jealous,” he announces, breathless and moaning in punctuation.

Hyūga Fumihiro scans his face in confusion, ghostly eyes panning down, down… Realization hits and his jaw snaps shut with an awful clack. It’s funny how the idiot’s already pale features loose whatever color they gained while vehemently arguing land rights. Flimsy wooden tables are nothing for even a passively activated byakugan. Every sweet, slick slide of Izuna’s cock has been artfully crafted and imprinted on this man’s memory for years to come.

The thought has Izuna throwing his head back and unintentionally reaching out to brace himself on something as the first pulse of come spurts hot and heavy. Pleasure slams through him. He kicks out as broken little ‘ah’s pours from his lips as readily as release spills down his knuckles. There’s movement—shouts of outrage and a violent shuffling around the room—but the commotion only drives his stomach to clench harder, his fist to piston faster.

They’re all watching, he thinks excitedly. Every single clan head holed up in a conference room with their eyes on him and his particularly inspired negotiation tactics. 

Finally, both the weight of their regard and the slide of foreskin grows overwhelming. His cock twitches gamely and begins to soften in his hand as he rides out the aftershocks of one of the best orgasms of his life.

It takes a moment for sight and sound to return, and when it does, he realizes the room is filled with equal parts silence and the rough rasp of his panting. Banners hang still in a mostly empty room.

Hashirama turns towards him as if to comment, watching wide-eyed and frozen halfway between disbelief and amusement. He settles on a bemused smile instead and shakes his head, setting the veil of his stupid hat swinging. “Alright—” he begins, clearing his throat. “That was certainly something.”

‘Something’? That was a show worthy of the Sage! Izuna deserves accolades, and quite possibly an after-hours blowjob in thanks for his commitment to keeping them all on schedule. Tobirama at least appreciates his diligence.

Scoffing, Tobirama bats Izuna’s hand off of his knee and denies him the possibility of an afterglow or anything even remotely nice.

“Well, now the clans will know better than to self-aggrandize,” he points out wryly.

Hashirama laughs.

Madara groans.

It’s not the sexy kind.


	10. MadaIzu, Cock warming, Rated M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 10.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober Day 10: Cock Warming  
> Pairing: Madara x Izuna  
> Rating: M
> 
> A/n: Set in a Fae AU...for reasons.

Izuna’s not exactly sure what it is about the warmth of his brother’s mouth that makes the endless summer pale in comparison. Maybe it’s the novelty of tenderness. Or possibly that his affection is freely given in a world where choice is a commodity not often afforded. 

Regardless of the reason, it’s just…nice.

He strokes the side of Madara’s face where his brother’s skin glows, flushed and otherworldly. Gold leaf flakes away under his fingertips as he traces a line over a strong cheekbone and down to the corner of his mouth. Those pretty pink lips continue to cradle Izuna’s flaccid cock between them as if allowing him to slip free would be a crime of the highest order. It might be. Then again, the misconduct might be in Izuna offering up his trust and his flesh to a human in the first place.

It’s funny how often Madara rides the knife-edge of his own unmaking. Stubborn, mortal ass.

Grinning, Izuna reclines further among the mound of golden pillows at his back and luxuriates in the ache of a thoroughly abused spine. His magics thrum, satiated and content beneath his skin. It wasn’t always like this—intimate and easy in the way they share their bodies.

Their love used to be innocent back when Tajima first stole Madara away from the human world and left a changeling to occupy his bassinet.

Resplendent in the old gods’ might, Izuna’s father had strode through the barrier between worlds with his heavy brocade gown and even heavier hand. He was always the most dangerous of the Fair Folk—the most powerful, the most tempestuous. Regardless, his love flowed deeper than any other and if Izuna asked for a pet, he was going to be gifted the very best.

And Madara is certainly that. Strong willed, powerful, and devoted. Amazing how the power of their bond surged unchecked even as they grew from brothers to lovers.

Husbands in all but name.

Izuna sings a gentle melody and tucks a strand of hair behind Madara’s ear. It earns him a lazy suckle as Madara stirs from his half doze to glance up sidelong. He hums in question, but Izuna taps his nose and shushes him before his cock can swell and betray the sweetness of the moment. 

“Stop squirming. I thought you wanted to nap for a little bit?” he croons, voice light and redolent with coercive magic—not that his talents have ever truly been able to hook beneath his brother’s skin.

Madara rolls his eyes in answer. They flash in the late evening glow—red like camellias, red like blood. 

Even as an infant, he was quiet, with curious hands and the gift of the moon goddess in his eyes. Izuna—technically still a child himself—was enamored from that very first day. He kicked Hikaku’s slavering hounds bloody and screeched at any magical influence that wasn’t his own until the powers of the world left his adopted brother alone. Seelie and Unseelie alike heeded the threat of a child half their height and twice their ability.

All of it because Izuna liked the way those red eyes shown only for him. If anything, he’s been the one caught up in the web of a glamour, not this human he calls brother.

It takes all of his will power for Izuna to look away and up to the forest canopy above where its leaves burn bright, trapped in Tajima’s perpetual Autumn. Madara’s tongue continues to lie flat along his length. Such a kind, doting thing. Izuna inhales deeply, taking in the apple-sweet musk of their coupling.

“I hope you know how much I love you,” he announces, wrapping the admission in song and a curl of truth magic. The Fair Folk know little of affection, but he’s studied his human lessons well, just as Madara has learned his in turn. He captures another errant strand of hair and strokes it back into place. “Tousan’s forests could turn to ash and I wouldn’t care if you were there to hold my hand.”

Without hesitation, Madara captures Izuna’s wrist and traces the tendons down to interlace their fingers—two worlds combined. He slowly pulls off of Izuna’s cock, lips glistening, and crawls over him to capture his lips in a honey-thick kiss instead. Easy, slow, and indulgently sweet. Surrounded by softness, with both hands held and intertwined above his head and the weight of their hearts pressed skin to skin, Izuna can’t think past the building pressure in his chest.

They kiss with unhurried thoroughness. The taste of their passion overwhelms. Finally, rough palms shift against his own as Madara allows him to take all of his weight until there’s nothing left between them. It’s as close to sharing a soul as they’ll even be able to get. Not quite there, but close enough to satisfy despite the ache—the never-ending hunger for more.

Eventually, Madara deigns to give him air again. He eases back only enough to look Izuna in the eye as they continue to share the ebb and flow of each other’s breath. “Love me enough to let me swallow when I suck you off?” he asks in a voice deep enough for Izuna to feel it.

And here he thought they were about to have a _moment_. Izuna sighs so heartily it warps into laughter.

“Yeah, sure, on one condition. You get to explain to Tousan why having you suck a dire wolf’s tit as a baby turned out to be a waste of a magical contract and a fifth of his lands all because you got horny,” he says, falling lax and pliant under his brother’s gaze, grinning all the while. “And you have to do it _before_ you turn into some idiot sycophant.” They both know he’s not serious. Twenty years of imported meals and delicate care wouldn’t be abandoned so easily. Because in the end, even release can be misconstrued as nourishment in this realm where law is as mutable as an oil slick.

“Fine. If you want to be a brat about it, I’ll just go back to what I was doing,” Madara scoffs, not bothering to press the subject.

“Oh, what a terrible consequence. However will I survive the cruelty?” Izuna retorts.

Madara glances up at him from under thick lashes, a tell-tale smile flickering, there and gone. It takes a little bit of maneuvering, but he manages to crawl backwards without letting go of Izuna’s hands. He collapses to the silk sheet they laid out in the warmest glen of the Uchiha lands with his head flattening Izuna’s thigh exactly where it had rested just a few minutes prior.

Sweat meanders down the long, strong lines of him. Mesmerizing. If Izuna could hand-craft a golem to suit each and every one of his preferences, it would still pale in comparison to the Spring morning Madara has grown into.

An intrepid tongue flits against the tip of his cock, followed by the press of beloved lips, and the warmth of a mouth made to house the entirety of him. Izuna moans—not at the promise of pleasure, that will come again later—and revels in another inescapable proof of his brother’s regard.

Of his love. 


End file.
